Wing Jones(8)

“I think that bum back there is pissing. Don’t look over your shoulder,” he says, squashing any romantic notions I have. I can hear the pee hitting the ground and now I do move closer to Aaron, less because of how I feel about him and more because I’m nervous about who else might be hiding in the dark.

“I’m guessing you don’t have a cigarette,” he says.

“Good guess,” I say. “You know what my mom would do if she ever caught me with a cigarette? What either of my grandmothers would do? What Marcus would do?”

“Yeah, I know what Marcus would do. He’s the one who made me quit.”

“Then why’d you just ask me if I had any?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t.”

The conversation seems like it’s going round and round in a way I don’t understand.

So I do what I do best. I keep quiet.

“I was just messing with you,” Aaron says. “Don’t worry. I don’t ever smoke anymore. Just feeling tense. I don’t know why Monica had to go and blow up like that.”

“She didn’t ‘blow up’ like anything,” I say, feeling defensive, even though she kind of did. I hope she and Marcus have made up by now. And that the reason they haven’t come outside is because they’re sitting making moon eyes at each other.

“You think they’re perfect, don’t you? Monica and Marcus?”

Aaron and I don’t ever talk like this. He teases me, he asks how my classes are going, occasionally he’ll even compliment me, some throwaway comment like “nice scarf” that didn’t cost him anything, and I’ll reach out and grab it as fast as I can and hold it close and put it in my pocket and take it out when I’m feeling low. But for as long as I’ve known him, which has been as long as I can remember, we’ve never had any kind of deep conversation between just the two of us.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. I’m flustered by the question, even though it’s nice to be talking to Aaron, just the two of us. Marcus is perfect. And he’s found the perfect girl. And they are perfect together. Sure, Monica can flare up sometimes. And every once in a while Marcus will be kind of an ass. I can admit that. But if they aren’t perfect they’re as close as any humans can be. This I am more certain of than I am of anything.

“Girl, you got stars in your eyes every time you look at them.”

“Marcus is my brother,” I say. “He’s the only one I got. The only one I’ll ever have.” I pause. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“He’s my brother too…” Aaron starts, but I turn and look at him with a fierceness that cuts him off mid sentence.

“No, he’s not,” I say, surprised by the steel in my voice. “He’s my real brother. He’s your best friend. He’s your ‘brother.’” I put my fingers up in air quotes. “But he’s my brother. He’s all I’ve got.”

“What about your mama and your grannies? You got them too, don’tcha?”

Aaron has his mother and that’s it. No grandmas, no daddy, no aunts, no uncles. Just his hardworking, hard-drinking, depressed-as-hell mother. I’ve met her only a handful of times and I don’t need to meet her any more than that.

And Jasper, I guess. Not that he does Aaron any good. Or is good for him.

I don’t know why I’m picking a fight with Aaron over something so silly. And as much as I proclaim that Marcus is more my brother than his brother, I know they’re connected by something that goes just as deep as blood. And in the same way that Aaron will never really understand the connection between me and Marcus, I’ll never know what it is that makes them so close.

“Look,” I say, finally turning and looking directly at him. “I know Marcus isn’t perfect. And neither is Monica. But … they’re as close as anyone I know is going to be. Why you wanna ruin that for me?”

Aaron just gazes at me awhile, his expression still. He nods toward the restaurant. Marcus and Monica are coming out, arms around each other, snuggled and smiling. He sighs and shrugs. “Just something to think about, that’s all.”

On the way home we blast the radio and roll down the windows and sing at the top of our lungs. The night air tastes like starlight. I haven’t had a drop to drink and don’t know what being drunk feels like, but right now I swear I’m tipsy. The edges of the moment are blurred like an old photograph. Just enough that I can’t quite see Aaron’s expression, and I force his words into the music box in my brain, slam the lid, turn the key, and forget about them.





CHAPTER 5


I should have known that Heather Parker wouldn’t be satisfied with how Friday night went. I used to try to figure out why she hated me. Now I know there is no why. Hating me is like … sport for her, like shooting skeet out in the countryside. Just another extracurricular activity. I picture it on her college application, between all her pageant awards and hours of community service: TEN YEARS TORMENTING WING JONES.

There was the time when we were on a field trip in fourth grade and she dumped an entire jug of sweet tea on my head because she “wanted to see what would happen” to my hair. And the time when she asked our teacher why I had “such a dumb name.” She got in trouble for that one, but she got a big laugh from the class.